Mon Petit Gâteau
by Reiko Katsura
Summary: Complete. So an ex-Death Eater walks into a pastry shop…and the rest, as they say, is history. HP/DM.
1. Honeybunch, Sugarplum

**Title:** Mon Petit Gâteau

**Author:** Reiko Katsura

**Fandom: **Harry Potter

**Pairing: **Harry/Draco

**Rating: **NC-17

**Length:** ~11.6k

**Warnings:** EWE, emotional eating, flangst, mature sexual content, chubby!Draco.

**Summary:** So an ex-Death Eater walks into a pastry shop…and the rest, as they say, is history.

**Author's Note: **This was originally supposed to have been written for **hp-kinkfest** ages ago, but I ended up dropping out and never completing it. The recipient was **vaysh11**, and some of the amazing prompts she provided were "fat admiration", "lonely!Draco", and "baker!Harry".

**Disclaimer:** This is non-profitable fanwork. I own nada.

* * *

**_Mon Petit Gâteau - Part I._**

* * *

Harry hadn't noticed him at first. The tell-tale Malfoy hair should have been his first clue, but everything else about the man argued that it wasn't him. Not _Malfoy_, the skinny, pointy, hateful git who'd lived to make Harry's life miserable during Hogwarts. But the more Harry looked at him, the more suspicious he became. He couldn't see too clearly stealing glances through the window of the café door, but the shape of the man's face, though plumper than he'd last remembered it, was _familiar_. The man also had a familiar gait; a brisk, graceful walk, despite his size, that gave an impression of gliding. And the _hair_. Harry had never seen any witch or wizard with that same shade of silvery, platinum blond.

Harry observed the man who was currently eyeing—and quite intensely, Harry could tell—their selection of tartelettes, before shaking his head and turning away from the door.

_It probably wasn't even him_, he told himself, heading toward the sink to wash his hands. There was no way the pompous, egotistical, narcissistic Draco Malfoy would ever let himself go. The boy he knew at Hogwarts would have probably preferred being put under _Cruciatus_ before getting fat.

_But he's not a boy anymore, and we're no longer in Hogwarts._

Harry sighed and returned to his station. Samielle, his apprentice, shot him a curious look as if to ask why he'd been staring out the window for Merlin-knew-how-long rather than working on the day's special like he was supposed to, but he shook his head at her. She shrugged her shoulders and continued adding Coulis to the batch of Sheetcakes he'd earlier prepared, and Harry followed her example and reached for an empty ramekin.

Malfoy or not, Harry had a job to do. Clearing his head of all (blond) distractions, he reached for a tray of butter and got to work.

The man eventually left, but by then Harry was too distracted to notice.

* * *

The next time the man came in, Harry was lucky enough to have been mingling at the front of the store, rather than working in the back.

Just like the last time, the man—_Malfoy_, Harry's mind persistently supplied—immediately headed for the tartelettes and stood there, arms crossed, going over each row as if his very life depended on it. Mark, one of the newer employees, began to move around the glass counter to offer his assistance but Harry stopped him by placing a firm hand on his arm, grinning, and moving towards the customer himself.

He'd never handled curiosity well.

Harry, baker's hat stuffed into his apron, moved to stand beside the man and cleared his throat. "May I be of some assistance to you, sir?" he asked, flashing his "customer smile" (as Hermione liked to call it) to the best of his ability.

The man shook his head and started to say, "No, it's alright…", before glancing up from his perusal of the desserts and freezing altogether.

That, more than anything else, confirmed that the person _was_ Malfoy. Harry couldn't imagine a complete stranger reacting in such a way (and he doubted he was handsome enough to attribute it to his looks).

Malfoy's mouth began to open and close as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words. Harry cut in and saved him the trouble.

"I knew it was you," Harry said, lips thinning. "What are you doing here?"

As if a bucket of water had been thrown over him, Malfoy shuddered and shut his mouth. He drew himself to his full height—three or four inches taller than him, Harry observed in irritation—and sneered.

The sight made a ripple of laughter form in Harry's chest, but he shoved it down quickly. Malfoy, with his chubby cheeks, looked like an angry chipmunk. Harry found it oddly—and horrifyingly—adorable.

"Potter," Malfoy said, and Harry found that Malfoy could at least still say his name as if shite was attached to it.

"What are you doing here?" Harry demanded again, folding his arms.

Malfoy gave him an irritated look, one that fully read as 'are you an idiot?', and planted a hand on his hip.

"I am—I was—shopping, Potter. What the bloody hell _else_ do you think I've been doing? If anyone should be pointing fingers and demanding "what" here, it should be _me_."

Harry snorted, unable to hold it back. It was almost reassuring to know that Malfoy hadn't changed all that much outside his appearance. He couldn't figure out why, but it was.

"I work here, Malfoy," Harry drawled, and gestured at his apparel.

Malfoy sneered again. "I hadn't noticed."

Harry refrained from grabbing a nearby pastry box and bashing him over the head with it. He doubted it would inflict the kind of damage that he'd intend on, and really, he'd rather not anger Malfoy too much—there were few people who knew where Harry Potter lived and worked, and he preferred keeping it that way.

"So now that you know that I work here I take it you'll be leaving?"

Malfoy stared at him and it took everything Harry had not to fidget.

"No, actually, I don't think I will be."

And with that he turned around and walked in the direction of the dining area, then promptly sat down at a table.

Harry wanted to break something. He stalked over to Malfoy's table and hissed, "What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?"

Malfoy gave him another one of his 'you can't possibly be that daft' looks and tapped the menu.

"I'm ordering, scarhead. Why else would I have taken a seat at a table and opened a menu?"

"To irritate me?" Harry gritted out.

Malfoy smiled. "And that, too."

Harry let out a long, deep breath, closed his eyes and counted to ten, and then opened them to give Malfoy a final fierce glare. He then turned on his heel and stormed across the shop, quickly disappearing behind the swinging café doors.

_He hasn't changed at all,_ Harry thought as he moved toward the sink, turned on the tap, and harshly began to wash his hands. _He's the same cruel, stuck-up git he used to be in school, only now there's more of him._

When Harry's hands were clean of soap he wiped them on a nearby towel before turning off the water. He then moved to his work station, ignoring the curious looks he was garnering from the rest of the staff, and began to pull out the necessary supplies for an _Amelie __Rose_.

Harry forced all thoughts of Draco Malfoy from his mind, turned on the stove, and got back to work.

* * *

The next time Harry saw Malfoy wasn't at _La pâtisserie d'Étienne_, surprisingly, but at the park. It was Sunday, and as most small shops in France, the Patisserie was closed for the day. Normally Harry spent his Sundays sleeping in, then later on popping in to see Ron and Hermione for a late lunch, but his friends were out of town visiting Hermione's parents, and Harry had been restless enough to roll out of bed even before the sun had properly risen, throw on jogging-wear, and hit the road for a run.

Harry began his routine just as he regularly did; he made a brisk walk to the nearby park and started on the South-East route, which ran beside _Lac Chauvet. _Usually he jogged the 5.6 kilometer track from start to finish, but today there'd been something nagging at him to do things differently. To break routine. So halfway into his run he switched onto the West lane heading North, a route he'd only taken a few times before because of the disappointing lack of scenery.

The new route made it almost impossible to tell just how far he'd run, so Harry waited until the pain of exercising overrode the joy of running before slowing down. He made a full stop at a grove of beech trees and, still panting, settled himself against one, using the thick trunk as a resting post to support his trembling legs and the high, scattered leaves as a shield from the overcast sun.

He'd been shrugging off his bag to retrieve his thermos of water when he noticed him from the corner of his eye—Malfoy, sitting by himself on a wooden bench, going through a rather heavy looking book with a red, ballpoint pen. Harry couldn't help but stop and stare at him. Malfoy's hair shone like light underneath the sun's rays, glittering in ways that should not have been possible. Despite how he felt about the prat, Harry had always admired his hair. It was smooth and straight and _perfect_, so unlike his own disheveled and intractable curls. More than once while they were at school Harry had imagined what it would have been like to run his fingers through Malfoy's hair.

_Probably like silk_, he couldn't help but think when Malfoy tilted his head forward and his blond fringe moved with him. _Certainly not rough like mine._

Harry continued to watch Malfoy do whatever it was he was (angrily) doing to the book as he pulled out his thermos and took a large swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and zipped the bag back up, bottle still out, and hoisted it onto one shoulder. When another few minutes passed and Harry had enough of feeling like a voyeur, he pushed away from the tree he was leaning on and made to walk away. But then Malfoy's face suddenly contorted in a way that was dangerously close to looking as if he were going to cry and Harry froze.

The book Malfoy'd been writing in was roughly knocked to the floor. Malfoy then leaned forward until his elbows were on his knees and buried his face in his hands. Alarmed, Harry wondered if Malfoy _was _actually crying. By the way his shoulders were shaking he wouldn't have ruled it out. To his relief, however, Malfoy lifted his—fortunately dry—face and slumped into the bench. He turned his head up, facing the sky, and Harry was momentarily struck by just how _lonely_ Malfoy looked. Like someone who was at his wits end and desperately needed someone to lean on.

Malfoy slowly grabbed a white paper bag from beside him, opened it, and pulled out what Harry was quite sure was a doughnut. He eyed the dessert with frustration, as if warring with himself whether or not he should eat it, then resignedly closed his eyes and brought the round cake to his lips.

It was that, more than anything else, that prompted Harry into moving. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing he was steadily walking towards Malfoy. Testament to just how long it had been since Harry'd been on the run from Death Eaters, Harry clumsily stepped on a twig not ten feet from Malfoy and cringed at the loud sound it made as it snapped in half beneath his trainers.

He cringed again when Malfoy's head shot down and swiveled in his direction.

_Smooth, Potter, _he thought glumly, and inhaled sharply when Malfoy's mouth dropped open.

Harry watched as Malfoy's expression morphed into one of surprise, then irritation, then wariness. He said nothing to him as Harry plopped himself down on the same bench, though a good distance away. Harry eventually sighed, and like Malfoy had done, tilted his head back and looked up into the trees, where spots of white sunlight peaked through the gaps of the leaves.

Finally, and surprisingly without much heat, Malfoy asked, "What are you doing here, Potter?"

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to admit that he thought Malfoy had looked lonely, but he bit the words back before they could cause him trouble. He could quite clearly recall the last time he caught Malfoy in a vulnerable situation, and truly did not want his intentionally noble act of impulsiveness (which, really, had been a stupid thing to do now that he thought about it) to escalate to a fight. Harry was sure that commenting on the man's obvious vulnerability would only accomplish just that.

Besides, Harry was confident that (after possibly hexing him) Malfoy would retort with something along the lines of him preferring loneliness to being subjected to the presence of the likes of Harry. Not in any particular mood to be cut down by Malfoy's sharp tongue or be at the opposite end of his wand, Harry said instead, "Resting."

Malfoy's reply was scathing. "I hadn't noticed."

Harry shrugged. "Just looked like a good seat is all."

"Right." Malfoy snorted. "Clearly there'd been so much sweat in your already useless eyes that you were completely incapable of seeing me sitting here. And now that you have—"

"I saw you," Harry interrupted. "Still thought it was a good seat, though. There's a nice breeze here, and not enough sun to be annoying."

When Harry turned to face Malfoy, it was to see him looking at him incredulously.

"I think the blood has gone to your brain, Potter."

"Probably," Harry said, oddly unconcerned. It was certainly possible, for why else would he have willingly gone to sit next to _Draco Malfoy_?

"Right," Malfoy said, slowly, as if convinced that at any moment Harry was going to do something even crazier, like get up and start singing. "Well, I'll leave you to your…insanity, then, Potter. Good day."

Harry heard Malfoy's paper bag crumble and saw him wipe his hands and stand, and he jumped to his feet and blurted out before he could stop himself, "Wait!".

Malfoy paused and settled him with an impatient look.

"What is it now, Potter? I don't have time for whatever it is you're playing at, so if you'll excuse me—"

"—Have dinner with me," Harry found himself saying.

Malfoy's eyes widened, and Harry fought the urge to smack himself on the forehead. If there was ever a time where Harry's inability to _think before he spoke _seemed like something that might have been an actual mental affliction, it was then.

With dread he watched as Malfoy began to scowl. The paper bag in his hand was being crumpled so hard Harry was surprised it didn't crumble into dust. Malfoy took a threatening step forward, and Harry bit his lip and determinedly stood his ground.

"I don't know what fucking game you're trying to pull me into, Potter, but I swear—"

"I'm not playing anything!" Harry said forcefully.

Malfoy snorted. "_Have dinner with me_," he mimicked pointedly.

Harry flushed. "Just to—you know, talk and stuff."

"Right. Because we have _so _much to talk about."

Harry crossed his arms defensively. "It was just an idea, alright?"

"A stupid one," Malfoy snapped.

Harry glared at him. "Obviously. I thought you'd have at least grown up a little since Hogwarts, but apparently not."

Malfoy returned his glare, but didn't say anything. Instead he grabbed his book and tucked it beneath his arm, pulled out his wand, and disapparated.

Harry stared at the spot Malfoy had disappeared from and shook his head. Wondering why he'd been foolish enough to have bothered in the first place, he scanned the area to make sure the coast was clear, pulled out his own wand, and followed Malfoy's suit.

* * *

"Oh. It's _you_, Potter."

Harry blinked in astonishment, more than a little surprised to see Malfoy there. The last time they'd spoken, which had been nearly a month ago, things had hardly ended well, and Harry had been quite positive that they'd never see each other again. It wasn't as if they followed the same circles, and as far as Harry knew, Malfoy still lived in England.

So bumping into Malfoy now, only a block away from his workplace, made Harry instantly suspicious.

"Malfoy," he returned in the same drone. "What are you doing here?"

Malfoy's eyes slid quickly to the left and back, and Harry would have laughed at what a cruddy liar he was if it'd been anyone else. As it was, the fact that Malfoy almost seemed to be _nervous _just put Harry all the more on guard.

"Just in the neighborhood," Malfoy said, and Harry would bet on his favorite paring knife that the git was lying through his teeth.

"Hm." If the light flush that rose on Malfoy's cheeks was any indication, Harry must have sounded as disbelieving as he felt.

"What?" Malfoy snapped, eyes narrowing.

Harry lifted his brows but didn't say a word.

They remained like that, facing each other in the middle of the street, neither of them uttering a thing. Harry could feel the curious gazes of the few pedestrians who were wandering about at that time of night, but ignored them in favor of staring Malfoy down.

Ron and Hermione used to tell him that being on the opposite end of Harry's stare was unsettling, and it must have been as Malfoy, proud as he was, was the first to look away. He quickly turned his head, gaze riveted on something across the street and lips dragging down to form a scowl.

Harry sighed, because this felt way too much like being back at Hogwarts for his personal liking.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" He asked. The tone he used was soft and cajoling, as if Harry were trying to persuade an angry kneazle to let him have a look at its injured paw all the while hoping he wouldn't be scratched in the face for his trouble.

Malfoy's posture seemed to relax a little at his question. He glanced at Harry for a moment, opened his mouth, then promptly closed it was a frustrated huff. His hair swayed as he shook his head and took a quick step back.

"Nothing," Malfoy said under his breath bitterly, almost too low for Harry to hear. Harry strained his ears to catch his next words. "I don't want anything."

He then turned on his heel and strode away.

Harry, stumped, could do little else but watch him go.

* * *

A week later Harry caught sight of a flash of blonde hair hurrying past his shop.

He didn't run out to see if the hair belonged to who he thought it did, but he had wanted to.

* * *

Harry told everything to Ron and Hermione a few days later.

They'd both rolled their eyes, which was insulting enough, but then Ron had muttered "Here we go again" and Hermione had nodded in agreement, as if what had happened then and what was happening now was in any way the same.

Harry left their house earlier than usual that day, and the next time he visited didn't bring Malfoy's name up once. None of them did.

* * *

Sometimes, Harry wondered if Malfoy still had scars.

And sometimes, Harry dreamed he did.

* * *

"Are you alright, boss?" Samielle asked, biting the inside of her cheek as she was prone to doing when she was nervous but trying to hide it.

"I'm fine," Harry said shortly, quickly placing the fourth batch of _Gougères_ on the sheet pan. He blinked at the ball of dough he'd just set down, frowned, and moved it. There, that was better. He scanned the pan, making sure there was an inch of space between each ball, then carried the tray off to the oven. He made sure the dial was set to 204°C before opening the door and sliding it onto the middle rack. He closed the oven and stood, not surprised in the least to find that Samielle had followed him.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Harry nodded absently as he moved around her to clear out his station.

She grabbed the whisks and spoons and carried them off to the sink. Harry picked up the rest of the supplies and followed.

"You've been really distracted lately," she continued, turning on the faucet and soaping the sponge.

Harry made a noncommittal sound.

Samielle shot him a sideways glance, grabbed the supplies he held, and began scrubbing everything clean.

"We've been worried," she said at last, obviously referring to herself and the rest of the kitchen crew.

"Nosy, more like," Harry muttered under his breath. He hadn't been as quiet as he'd thought if the sharp glance she sent his way was anything to go by.

"More worried, though." She said, not even denying it.

Which is why Harry had chosen her as an apprentice rather than the dozens of other applicants who'd sent official queries, baking talent notwithstanding. Samielle had turned up at his Patisserie out of the blue one day, wearing battered jeans with rips at the knees and a white tee with the words "Go Fuck Yourself" emblazoned on the front. She'd strode up to him, demanded to know if he was the Harry Potter who'd graduated from _Camille's école de patisserie _with _honors, _and once confirmed, promptly told him that she might not be the best (barely managing to scrape by at Camille's) but she fucking _loved _pastries and would work her motherfucking ass off.

Harry had been charmed and accepted her proposal on the spot, to the surprise of just about everyone, save Hermione and Ron. She'd been working under him for two years, and never once had Harry ever regretted it.

Even now, when she was clearly stomping over the line of a traditional master-apprentice relationship.

When she was finished washing, Harry rinsed his hands and dried them with the napkin Samellie provided. She followed him back to his station, and Harry had to give her credit for her persistence.

"I'm fine," Harry told her again.

"Not to mention a really crappy liar," she huffed. She looked appropriately contrite when Harry frowned at her, but Harry didn't buy it for a moment.

They both finished clearing out his station in silence. It was already well past 10:00 p.m., and as always, they were the only two there. Harry's presence was pretty self-explanatory; he was the head baker, but that aside, practically lived for his career. Spending a few extra hours doing a job he loved was no hardship at all.

Harry didn't know why Samielle chose to stay as late as she often did, but after the first time he'd tried asking, never brought it up again.

It had been the first time he'd ever seen her about to cry, and unless she initiated that particular conversation, Harry was never going to be the reason for putting that expression on her face again.

"Does it have to do with that blond guy who's been hanging around all the time lately?"

Harry promptly knocked a saucepan off the table.

"I'm going to take that as a 'yes'," she continued dryly, watching him retrieve the pan.

He stood up quickly and placed the pan back on the table, never mind that if it had been anyone else he would have given then a stern talking to.

"Malfoy's been hanging around?" Harry asked sharply.

"If you're referring to that big guy with the white hair, then yup. He drops by almost every day. Doesn't always come in, though." When Harry made a gesture for her to get on with it, she rolled her eyes but did so anyway. "Sometimes he just stands in front of the shop like he's debating whether or not to come in. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't."

Harry frowned and pondered that.

"Has…has he ever said anything to anyone? Er, like why he's been hanging around?"

Samielle's look was way too coy. "Nope. He usually just comes in, orders something quickly, then runs back out." She paused for a moment, then snorted. "And sometimes he doesn't even do that much."

Harry ignored the look she was giving him and tried to picture someone like Malfoy doing what Samielle had just described.

Perhaps he wouldn't have been able to connect the Malfoy of old with the nervous, indecisive bloke who'd been pretty much stalking his shop, but the Malfoy of now? The one who'd looked like he'd been about to cry that day at the park, and the one who'd so obviously been desperate to tell him something but had walked off dejectedly after never having said a word? Yeah, that Malfoy he could easily see doing just that.

Harry exhaled deeply and looked Samielle squarely in the eye. The coy look she wore fell away and she immediately straightened, her expression sobering.

"Samielle," Harry started. "I have a favor to ask…"

* * *

Two days later, when Harry was in the middle of filling a dozen _Bichon__au Citrons_, Samielle rushed in, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, and nearly shoved Emilie out of the way in her haste to reach him.

"Samielle, what—"

"He's here," she spoke quickly, gesturing with her head towards the fast swinging doors. "The guy you asked me to keep an eye out for. He's here."

Something in Harry swelled.

He swallowed thickly and glanced from the café doors to his unfinished pastries.

Samielle rolled her eyes at him and stalked over to the sink, lifting up her sleeves in preparation to wash her hands.

"I got it, boss," she said.

Harry dropped his piping bag, ignored the mess it was undoubtedly making of the table, and all but ran to the doors, stuffing his hat in his back pocket as he went.

He pushed through the doors, heart beating with something he couldn't describe, and nearly wilted with relief as the man he hadn't been able to stop thinking about for the past few weeks looked up and caught his gaze.

Grey eyes widened in alarm and Harry, feeling a bit like he'd been hit by a hippogriff on a rampage, thought _oh_.

Suddenly Ron and Hermione's last comment about him and Malfoy made a lot more sense.

Inhaling deeply, Harry took a step forward.

"Malfoy," Harry started, then abruptly stopped, mind going pathetically blank. And to think he'd had what amounted to a speech memorized only a few minutes before.

"Potter," Malfoy said coolly. The wideness of his eyes and the downturned quirk of his lips betrayed whatever nonchalance he'd been attempting to convey.

Harry didn't know how long they stood there staring at each other, or even if they were causing a scene. All he knew was that Malfoy's eyes were a shade of grey that shouldn't have existed and that he was looking at Harry with such poorly concealed yearning that it made the breath catch in Harry's throat and warmth pool in his stomach.

"Have dinner with me," he blurted out.

Malfoy quirked a brow, expression morphing into one of disbelief.

"Please," Harry added.

Malfoy just continued to stare at him.

"I'm an excellent cook," he continued, nerves prompting him to babble. "I mean, I'm not as good at it as I am at baking, obviously, but cooking and baking are like cousins—distant cousin, really—and you can hardly do one without knowing how to do the other to some extent. So I'll cook. Though you could, if you wanted! It's just an idea, anyway. We could also go out to eat or, or something. I know this great place that—"

"Potter," Malfoy cut him off.

Harry's mouth snapped shut.

Malfoy huffed and rolled his eyes. He gave Harry a long, undecipherable look and then bobbed his head sharply.

"Is that a yes...?" Harry trailed off, uncertainly.

Malfoy glanced away.

A small smile bloomed across Harry's face despite his best efforts to keep it at bay.

"Good. That's…good."

"Eloquent as ever, Potter," Malfoy snorted, but there was no bite to it. In fact, if Harry didn't know better, he'd go as far as to say that Malfoy sounded pleased.

"When and where would be good for you?" Harry continued, feeling a smite less nervous now. "I get off at five today."

"Someone's eager," Malfoy said, tone cool but eyes teasing.

Harry just looked at him.

Harry watched, enraptured, as Malfoy's cheeks pinked and he dropped his gaze once more, his fringe falling over his eyes. Harry's fingers twitched with the effort it took not to reach out and brush it aside.

_Don't get too ahead of yourself, Potter_, Harry reminded himself sternly. The last thing he wanted was to be too forward and scare Malfoy off.

Scare Malfoy off. The concept was a surreal one.

"I can meet you here at seven," Malfoy said after a long pause.

"Alright. I mean, yeah, that's great. Any preferences for dinner…?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"We'll dine out, then," Harry said firmly, thinking that perhaps inviting Malfoy over to his place wasn't necessarily the best idea.

"Fine," Malfoy said evenly. He then turned on his heel and, without another word or a backwards glance, swept out of the patisserie.

Harry stared at the doors longer than could be considered dignified. Heart still racing in his chest, he ignored the patrons around him—though there weren't many—and walked over to a chair and slumped down. His wiped his sweaty palms on his apron and rubbed a hand over his face.

What did he think he was doing?

He wasn't thinking, and that was the problem.

A part of Harry was convinced he should have left Malfoy well enough alone. They'd only ever brought out the worst in each other, and nothing good ever came out of their interactions. It would have been easy to have avoided him, and eventually Malfoy would have lost interest and disappeared. Harry hadn't seen Malfoy in years and he hadn't suffered for it. In fact, he'd barely thought of the prat at all (Harry studiously ignored the voice in his head that whispered _liar)_. This, whatever it was, wasn't necessary. Moreover, it'd probably lead Harry on a path of hardship. And Harry had had enough of that to last a lifetime, thanks.

However, there was another part of him, a part that he found more difficult to ignore, that couldn't stop thinking about the way Malfoy now looked; soft and curvaceous where everything had once been bony, pointed, and sharp. He couldn't get the sight of Malfoy looking at with him wide, beseeching eyes while his mouth formed words that would make a lesser man flinch. Couldn't _not_ think about the way he'd looked that day at the park, hunched over like he'd wanted to disappear, his loneliness nearly a visible shroud around him.

But it was the thought of Malfoy consuming that doughnut, his face contorting as if each bite caused him physical pain and emotional anguish, that Harry obsessed over the most. He was a baker; sweets were his specialty. He'd chosen his profession not only because he was good at it, but because he took great pleasure in creating things that brought others joy. To Harry, desserts were the epitome of happiness. There were countless studies that supported the idea that sugar and various other ingredients used in baked goods sent dopamine signals to the brain, resulting in instant pleasure. Harry was of the mind that it was the memories associated with sweets that brought the true elation, however. People's favorite desserts were reminders of good times—holiday sweets, trips to the carnival, gifts from those they loved best. Harry himself was almost always reminded of his first ride on the Hogwarts Express and the best friends he'd made on the journey.

The purpose of dessert was to make people happy. Which was why Harry found it so inherently wrong that Malfoy had looked as if each bite had caused him unimaginable torment.

Harry dreamed about that expression. He thought of it while on his way to work, and in between prepping and baking and decorating, and after meetings, and during meals, and in the blissful moments before sleep. Malfoy's face in that moment _haunted _him, and before long Harry had started thinking that he wanted more than anything to replace it with something more fitting—something happier. _When_, exactly, he started fantasizing about being the one to do so, he had no idea. He only knew that one day the thought came and simply never left.

Harry didn't think that was going to change any time soon.

With a an embarrassingly long, melodramatic sigh Harry pushed himself up from the chair and made his way back to the kitchen. He had a lot of work to do, and if he was going to leave on time then he had best get back to it.

* * *

**_To be continued in Part II._**

* * *

**Chapter Notes: **I apologize for any inaccuracies you come across. I've never been to France and I don't speak French so I used Google for just about everything. Sorry. If anyone fluent in French happens upon this story I hope you'll correct me.

1) _Mon Petit Gâteau –_ "My Little Cake" or "My Cupcake".

2) La pâtisserie d'Étienne_ –_ Stephen's Patisserie. (Thanks for the correction, Bilnur!)

3) _Lac Chauvet –_ Lake Chauvet, while a real lake in France, is mainly a fictional setting in this fic.

4) If you're interested in what the city Harry resides in looks like, I sort of based the idea on _Saint- Étienne, _a city in Eastern Central France.

5) _Camille's __É_cole de Patisserie – Camille's School of Baking, basically.


	2. Cuppycake, Gumdrop

_**Mon Petit Gâteau — Part II.**_

* * *

Harry was done by four, which was record time for him. After ascertaining that his assistants and apprentice were on top of things, he quickly gathered his belongings and made his way home. He took a long, thorough shower with the soaps he liked to save for special occasions and washed his hair more carefully than usual. If it couldn't lie flat it could at least look shiny, he figured.

Choosing an outfit was more difficult. Harry had already decided to bring Malfoy to _Le __Chantecler__. _It was a distinguished establishment, which Malfoy was sure to appreciate (he hoped), with the benefit of not being ostentatious or outrageously expensive. More importantly, however, was the fact that it had a secret floor reserved for Wizards, an extensive wine list, and desserts that were, while not as brilliant as Harry's (if he did say so himself), still bloody delicious.

Making arrangements on such short notice wasn't easy, but Harry somehow managed. It helped that he'd offered his services and collaborated with the restaurant in the past. It also didn't hurt that he was Harry Potter.

But back to this dressing business. Harry eventually decided on four outfits but wasn't quite sure if he should wear dress robes or a muggle suit. He thought he looked better in the latter, but would Malfoy prefer him in robes?

It took him a long time to convince himself that it didn't matter what Malfoy thought and choose the suits. Which left him fretting over another issue—black and green or black and red?

He thought the red complimented his complexion more and helped him look not so, well, pale. But Hermione had always insisted that green brought out his eyes in breathtaking ways (much to Ron's amusement). So Harry supposed his options really came down to pasty with gorgeous eyes or non-pasty with regular eyes.

Harry thought about their setting (a dim room, seated across from each other), considered the house Malfoy had come from, and finally made his decision.

* * *

Harry arrived at the patisserie with twenty minutes to spare. Figuring that Malfoy would arrive promptly at seven (if not later), he passed the time fielding questions from his assistants, ignoring the lascivious looks Samielle kept sending his way, and making sure, to everyone's indignation, that they hadn't set the kitchen on fire while he was gone.

They eventually kicked him out, and Harry left with his arms raised in surrender. His chuckling cut off abruptly when he realized that Malfoy was already there, standing by the shelves like he didn't have a care in the world.

Malfoy looked up and his impassive expression cracked. Harry, for his part, was too busy admiring (_looking_, he corrected unconvincingly) the pale grey suit Malfoy was wearing. It looked surprisingly good on him; snug around his frame without appearing restrictive or awkward, but rather flattering instead. He thought, in amusement, that perhaps they'd both decided on attire that would bring out their eyes.

"You look great," Harry offered a long moment.

A flush spread across Malfoy's face but his expression didn't change.

"Likewise."

Harry shouldn't have been so amused by this, but he was.

"I'd worried that perhaps I'd overdressed. Good to know that I hadn't."

"Yeah, er, sorry about that. Not mentioning where we're going, I mean. If it's alright with you, I thought we'd have dinner at _Le __Chantecler_?"

Harry had wondered how long it would take him to start quirking those eyebrows of his.

"I'm surprised you managed to land a reservation, considering."

Harry shot him an arrogant grin, which only widened when Malfoy scoffed. He didn't say anything about Harry using his name to get his way or anything like that, though, so he counted it as a win for himself and a maturity point for Malfoy.

He briefly considered that Malfoy probably didn't see a problem with it because he'd be benefiting from it as well, but then inwardly shrugged. The important thing was that Malfoy hadn't said anything.

"What time is the reservation?"

"Seven-fifteen."

"So certain that I'd arrive on time, huh?"

Harry looked at him. "You've always been punctual, Malfoy."

Harry's stomach warmed when the tightness around Malfoy's eyes softened a little.

Harry glanced at his watch—which read 7:03—and said, "We should probably head out now. We can apparate directly inside, but I'd rather we arrive a little early. You ready?"

Malfoy nodded briskly, and Harry held out his arm for him to take. He reached for it, hesitated, and then brought it down again.

"What is this, Potter?" Malfoy all but whispered.

"What do you mean?"

Clearly Malfoy didn't appreciate him playing dumb because his eyes flashed and he scowled.

Harry retracted his outstretched arm and rubbed the back of his neck.

"It's…er…well, I suppose…" Harry trailed off, and winced when Malfoy's gaze grew frostier. "A date," he eventually rasped. "It's a date."

He breathed a mental sigh of relief when the eyes gazing at him chipped a bit.

"But _why_?"

Harry shrugged, because he couldn't really answer that.

"I don't know, Malfoy. It just. It just feels right."

Malfoy nodded, as if that made sense. Harry supposed that in a way it did.

"We hate each other," Malfoy pointed out. He didn't really sound all that convincing.

"No, we _used _to hate each other. Now… well, we don't really know each other well enough to hate each other."

"Do you think it's likely that we wont?" Malfoy asked, disbelieving.

He shrugged again. "You're asking me something I can't possibly answer. I wish I could, but I can't. Based on experience I guess we could very well end up getting to know one another and still hating each other—"

"Then _why_—"

"But I don't think that's going to happen," Harry interrupted him firmly.

They stared at each other for a long time, both trying to find something in the other's gaze.

Malfoy blinked rapidly for a moment and then his eyes became considerably soft. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

He didn't know what it was Malfoy found in his eyes, but whatever it was was enough to make him look more at ease than Harry had seen him in weeks.

"This is insane," Malfoy muttered, shaking his head.

Harry gave into the impulse he'd been fighting for ages. He pulled a few wayward strands of Malfoy's blond hair—and nearly closed his eyes at how soft it felt—and tucked it behind his ear.

Malfoy looked shocked, but the look tapered away to something more pleasantly surprised.

Harry held out his arm again. "Scared, Malfoy?" he mocked, eyes gleaming.

Malfoy let out a bark of laughter. "You wish," he said fiercely, then hooked his arm through Harry's. They apparated.

* * *

The date went better than Harry had expected. Apparently Malfoy could be utterly charming when he put his mind to it, to the extent that, by the time dinner was over, Harry had felt positively _dazzled. _He couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a great time eating out with someone who wasn't Ron and Hermione.

It had been a little awkward at first, neither of them knowing what to say and trying to hide it with excessive sips of wine. It didn't help that there was so much bad history between the two of them, and that one careless remark could very well result in hexes flying. So they spoke tentatively of Quidditch and music and current Wizarding politics in both Britain and France. Things started to pick up a little when they started discussing the newly elected British Prime Minister, Helga Badofsworth, who they both thought seemed promising. This stunned Harry, who had thought Badofsworth's progressive views and ongoing policies to help integrate muggle technology into the Wizarding World would have upset Malfoy, him being a pureblood and all.

Malfoy caught his disbelief, but thankfully didn't get mad about it.

"I work in the muggle liason department of Whitsongshire's Publisher's_, _Potter," Malfoy waved his hand airily, "my job is all about being _au courant._"

So apparently Harry had a kink that involved Malfoy speaking French. Who would have thought?

Malfoy spoke more about his job—what it entailed, his traveling privileges, how it as interesting as it was frustrating—and conversation flowed much easier after that. They spent two hours chatting about nothing and everything as the waiters replaced course after course. When dessert finally arrived, Harry was so full he flirted with the idea of popping a button open on his trousers. In the end he settled for discretely muttering a spell that loosened his waistband. Despite Harry's efforts to be inconspicuous, Malfoy still caught on and smirked at him. The git.

Dessert—a small serving of pear gelatin for each—came and went, and they split the bill between the two of them—

("I invited you, it's only proper that I pay, Malfoy!"

"As if I'd let you treat me like I'm some _pauper_. I'm perfectly capable of paying for the both us, scar head!"

"Oh, _that's _mature!"

"I'll _give_ you mature!")

—and left. It was warm out when they stepped foot outside the hotel, and the sun was only just beginning to set. The sky was a vivid fusion of pinks, oranges, and reds, with flecks of white and gold peeking through the clouds and setting them aglow.

"What are you thinking?" Malfoy asked from beside him. They were standing so close their shoulders brushed.

"The clouds look like candy floss," Harry said.

Malfoy chuckled. "Are sweets the only thing that run around in that head of yours?"

Harry turned said head to look at him.

Malfoy's face was upturned, nose pointed towards the sky. The blinding light of dusk fell ethereally over him, making his hair sparkle like candy glitter and his skin glow like whipped cream. His irises looked almost silver as he stared up at the sky, wide-eyed and glimmering with appreciation.

"Not the only thing, no." Harry said unsteadily.

Malfoy glanced at him sideways, and whatever he saw in his Harry's gaze made color rise on his pale cheeks.

Harry wasn't sure what prompted him into moving. Honestly, he hadn't even been aware of him doing so—not until he came toe to toe with Malfoy, so close their noses almost touched and he could see flecks of blue around his pupils.

Malfoy exhaled shakily and Harry felt it ghost over his lips like a kiss. He chased the tingling away with his tongue and shivered when he saw Malfoy trace the movement with his eyes.

"What are we doing, Potter?" Malfoy asked, voice trembling.

Harry closed his eyes. "What we should have done a long time ago."

Harry felt a tentative brush of lips against his, and then the world spun.

* * *

They apparated in the middle of Harry's apartment as a heap on the floor, the rug skidding beneath them as they landed. Malfoy grunted in pain, but that was all, so Harry counted it as a win. No immediate screaming implied that they'd made it with all their parts intact.

Nothing ruined a date like being splinched.

Malfoy grabbed the front of Harry's tux and hauled him on top of him, and Harry made an indecent sound as their lips came together again. Kissing Malfoy was intoxicating, he soon discovered. He could still taste the tartness of the wine and the sweetness of the gelatin on Malfoy's tongue and he could hardly get enough.

"_Merlin_," Malfoy groaned, opening his mouth wide in invitation.

Harry wasted no time in accepting. He licked his way across Malfoy's teeth, his gums, the inside of his cheek, and tangled their tongues together until Malfoy was gasping into his mouth.

Their faces were slick with spit when they finally drew apart. It should have made him feel embarrassed, perhaps even grossed out, but it didn't. Instead, it aroused him—especially when Malfoy licked his lips like he could still taste Harry on him and wanted to savor the taste.

Harry pushed himself to his knees and quickly shrugged out of his jacket. He made to undo his tie but Malfoy grabbed his hand and shook his head.

"Leave it on," he ordered. His tone sent shivers down Harry's back.

"Kinky bastard," Harry retorted, but he dropped his hand and moved to unbutton his shirt anyway.

Malfoy tried to help, but his fingers were too clumsy to accomplish much of anything, so Harry swatted them away. Not that Harry was doing much better. He ended up just tearing the bottom half of the shirt apart, deliberately ignoring the sound of shredding silk and scattering buttons.

"Someone's eager," Malfoy drawled.

He was spread out on the floor, propped up on his elbows with an arrogant smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Harry wanted nothing more than to snog that smirk right off the git's face.

He shifted forward, arms encasing, and shoved his knee in between Malfoy's legs. Malfoy dropped to his back with a moan that sent sparks zigzagging down Harry's spine.

"Who's eager now?" Harry panted, thrusting his knee as he leaned down for a kiss.

"Bugger off, Potter," Malfoy said before drawing Harry into his mouth.

They snogged for what felt like hours. Harry discovered that Malfoy _loved _having his tongue suckled and his lips nipped at. There was a spot behind his ear that, when licked, made him keen loudly enough that Harry had to throw up a silencing charm. Kisses down the length of his throat made him shiver uncontrollably. Mouthing at his collar made his eyes flutter shut.

Harry also discovered that Malfoy had _very _sensitive nipples. He very nearly came on the spot when he pressed his thumb against the hardened nub and Malfoy threw his head back and moaned, even despite the multiple layers.

Harry picked up the pace after that.

He pulled Malfoy up to sit and all but tore off his jacket. He tossed it somewhere, hoping that Malfoy wouldn't get too upset with him in the morning when he discovered it a wrinkled mess (Harry figured creases would be easier to get out then semen, though). That done with, he moved onto Malfoy's shirt. He'd barely popped off a handful of those frustratingly tiny, cockblocking buttons of evil (and was seriously considering tearing the whole thing off and paying Malfoy for it later, preferably in blowjobs) when Malfoy pushed Harry away and closed the gap of his shirt with a white-knuckled hand.

Harry paused and blinked, confused. "Malfoy—what? Is something wrong?"

Malfoy was breathing heavily, and his cheeks were flushed, and he was looking everywhere but at Harry.

"I think I should go," he rasped.

Harry felt his heart sink.

"Woah, woah, woah!" He broke in. "Listen, if something's wrong, if I was _doing _something wrong—"

"It's not you!" Malfoy snapped.

Harry could all but see the walls coming up.

"Then _what_?" Harry implored. "Malfoy, you have to tell me what—we can fix it, alright? Just let me know what's going on."

Malfoy dropped his head and shook his head. "I—"

Harry waited for a long moment, shifting uncomfortably as his erection pressed tightly against his trousers. He willed himself to ignore it and calm the fuck down.

It wasn't easy.

"You?" Harry prompted, unable to stay silent.

Malfoy mumbled something that Harry couldn't catch.

"What?"

A few more minutes passed in quiet. Harry was about ready to give up, to apologize for possibly rushing (and ruining) things and call it a night, when Malfoy's voice, low and angry and rough, broke the silence.

"…I'm _fat_, Potter," came the gritted reply.

Harry felt even more confused. He opened his mouth, ready to say something along the lines of "So?", when it dawned on him, what Malfoy was really trying to say.

Harry fell back on his heels in shock.

Oh.

_Oh. _

"Oh," he said, ineloquently. He inwardly cursed himself when Malfoy's fingers tightened into a fist.

"This was a bad idea," he muttered lowly, scrambling up to his feet. "A really fucking bad idea. What was I _thinking_? Stupid, stupid…"

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to properly take in the meaning of Malfoy's words and the fact that he was_ leaving_, possibly for good.

He rose to his feet and grabbed Malfoy's hand before he could reach for his jacket.

"Malfoy, don't."

"Don't _what_?"

"Malfoy, look at me."

He wouldn't, so Harry maneuvered himself in front of him. He didn't let go of his hand.

"Hey, that doesn't matter to me—"

"Well it matters to _me_!" he shouted.

If anyone deserved a best-foot-in-your-mouth award, it was Harry.

"I didn't _mean_ that," Harry argued, tightening his grip on Malfoy's hand when he tried to jerk it away. "Malfoy—I-I just. _Ugh_!" he exploded, startling Malfoy into finally looking up. "Malfoy, you _know _how terrible I am with words! Just—just give me a moment to get it out properly, alright?"

Malfoy nodded slowly, eyes narrowed. He was looking at Harry like he was a hippogriff he didn't want to spook. Harry would have laughed if the situation weren't so serious.

"It doesn't bother me," Harry said slowly, "because I _like _my partners with a bit of meat on their bones, okay?"

There. Short and straight to the point. Harry didn't think it _seemed _offensive, but then it was Malfoy he was talking to. Harry was sure Malfoy could find insult in a "hullo."

"So what then, Potter? I'm some _fetish _to you?"

Refraining from banging his head against the wall almost hurt. "_No, _Malfoy. Don't put words in my mouth."

"Then what are you bloody getting at?"

"I'm trying to say that I like you the way you are!" Harry snapped.

Malfoy folded his arms and scoffed. "Of course you do, Potter. There's absolutely nothing—"

"If you'd like to know, I find you far more attractive now than I ever did when we were teenagers!"

Malfoy sneered at him. "Oh really?"

"_Yes, _really," Harry stressed. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, annoyed that he couldn't get Malfoy to _see_.

"Do you want me to be honest?" Harry finally asked.

"No, I want to you _lie_ to me."

They'd only been on one date and already Harry wanted to throttle him.

"You were a weird-fucking-looking kid, alright?" He said, and pushed on before Malfoy, whose face had turned an unattractive red, could open his mouth (quite possibly to curse him). "You were bony, and pointy, and quite frankly I always felt like I'd cut myself on you if we ever touched. You always looked sick and hungry and I wouldn't have touched you with a ten foot pole if you paid me a million galleons."

Malfoy very much looked like he wanted to knife Harry right this moment. In fact, Harry was pretty sure that he was reaching for his wand right now. Harry hurried on before it could come to that.

"But now…" Harry looked at Malfoy beseechingly. "You look _healthy, _Malfoy. Healthy and soft and warm and _touchable. _You look like all the ice around you has melted and left behind this fucking _gorgeous _creature who I want to thoroughly fuck and then snuggle with afterwards. I think you're little tummy is adorable, and I love the way your chubby fingers feel on my skin—god, I can't even imagine what they'd feel like _inside _me. And your arse—Malfoy, have you any idea what your arse looks like in those trousers? I've wanted to walk around with my hands in your back pockets _all day._"

Harry looked down, no longer able to meet Malfoy's stunned gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed deeply, and was utterly thankful that he'd taken his shirt off already because the room had become unbearably hot, even if his state of undress made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

"You're gorgeous _to me_," Harry made himself finish awkwardly.

Neither of them said a word for a torturously long moment. Harry was so busy trying to figure out how to magic a hole into existence underneath him when Malfoy exhaled slowly.

"Oh," he said. "Well. That's alright then."

Harry's gaze snapped to him and he gawked.

"That's _alright then_?" He demanded. "Seriously? That's all you've got to say?"

Malfoy's face was utterly red but at least he was looking Harry in the eye.

"Well, what in the world would you have me say to _that_?"

Harry didn't even have to think about it. "Oh, I don't know, how about a "thank you, Harry" or a "I like the way you look too, Harry" or a "get over here and ravish me already, Har—"

Harry barely got the words out before Draco was on him again, kissing him like he was a starving man and Harry was his only source of sustenance for miles.

(Harry really _did_ have a bad habit of thinking in food analogies.)

He croaked something about a bedroom, but it didn't come out quite the way he liked—that is to say, in any way coherent—so he settled for dragging Draco to his bedroom, pushing him down onto the bed, and crawling over him.

When Harry made to remove his shirt, in between hip thrusts and desperate kisses, Draco made no objection to it. Harry pulled it open and helped him shimmy out of it. Then he sat back and awarded himself a long look.

He'd bloody well earned it.

Malfoy was blushing furiously, and Harry was transfixed by the way it bloomed across his face and spread down his neck and across his chest.

Malfoy was, perhaps, a little chubbier than he'd appeared when clothed. His pecs were soft and swollen, supporting wide, pink nipples that hardened under his gaze. His stomach was flabby and round, like a pillow, and Harry could almost imagine what it would feel like to rest his head on it at night. He bit back a smile at the thought.

There were soft rolls at his sides that he knew would feel incredible to grab onto when they fucked. In fact, Malfoy was made to be grabbed _everywhere, _from the curve of his stomach to the swells of his chest to the supple meat on his shoulders and arms.

He was pale—almost ghostly so—and had only a faint smattering of blond hair scattered across his chest and down his stomach, disappearing into the waistline of his pants.

Harry wiped at his mouth and was surprised not to find drool there.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Harry breathed, crawling over him.

"You're not so bad yourself, I suppose," Malfoy retorted, sounding just as breathless.

Harry pinched his nipple in retaliation, and smirked when Malfoy squeaked.

"Arsehole—ah!" Malfoy groaned as Harry kneaded the injured nub with his hand.

"Git," Harry retorted distractedly before ducking his head. He sucked Malfoy's nipple into his mouth and Malfoy gasped. He pushed his torso upward, request all too clear, and Harry wasted no time in obliging.

The sounds Malfoy made as Harry ravished his chest were intoxicating. He moaned when Harry sucked the puckered nub, whined when he traced his tongue around it, hissed when he teased it with his teeth. His whole body arched when Harry blew cool air over it and he watched, enraptured, and goosebumps broke across his skin.

"So fucking gorgeous," he said, pushing himself up for another kiss. Malfoy grabbed his hair and nearly smashed their faces together.

Harry's hands roamed as they snogged, exploring. Malfoy was so fucking soft it was ridiculous. Harry's fingers sunk wherever he pressed, leaving dull red marks that faded disappointingly fast. There were ridges on his lower stomach—stretch marks, he soon discovered—and Harry spent a substantial amount of time tracing the puckered lines with his fingers and nails.

"Weirdo," Malfoy said.

He'd been too engrossed with the patterns on Malfoy's skin to care.

How they managed to remove their trousers and pants in between desperate kisses and touches that were wrought with impatience, Harry didn't know. One moment Harry was despairing over the layers of clothes separating them and in the next he and Malfoy were thrusting against each other without a stitch of cloth in sight.

_Like magic, _Harry thought. And then had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

Malfoy's erection was scorching and hard against his. Every thrust made Harry's eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. And Malfoy—fuck, but was he desperate for it. He was rutting against him like Harry was the only thing keeping him from dying.

Harry was faring no better.

"Are we going to get off like this?" Malfoy asked breathily. He moaned a curse when their cocks slapped together.

Harry didn't know what to do. As amazing as frotting against Malfoy felt, he didn't want to _come _this way. He especially didn't want their first time to end like this, with them coming all over themselves like they were bloody teenagers.

What Harry really wanted at the moment was to sink inside Malfoy and fuck him until they were both screaming. _The other way around would be good, too_, he thought. Harry hadn't been fucked in an absurdly long time and now, just thinking about it, made him almost desperate for the burning stretch and overwhelming fullness that accompanied it.

Perhaps now was not the time for that, though.

Pushing the tantalizing thought from his mind for the time being, he bent down, brushed a few strands of wayward blond hair away from Malfoy's ear, and whispered, "Want to 69?"

Malfoy's groan against his neck had him reaching down to clamp a restrictive fist over the base of his cock.

This wouldn't be taking long at all.

"Gods, yes," Malfoy said, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "Hurry the hell up, Potter, we haven't got all day, Merlin, could you be any slower—"

Harry laughed, amused by his impatience, and quickly got onto his knees and flipped around.

Malfoy must have approved of the sight because he choked out "_Merlin!_" and grabbed at Harry's hips so roughly that he was resigned to having bruises there for a while.

Clearly Malfoy wasn't kidding around because within one blink and the next Harry was scrambling to get purchase on the bed as Malfoy swallowed him down. He cried out as Malfoy tongued the head of his cock, dipping his tongue into the sensitive slit, before engulfing his aching member to the hilt once more.

Suddenly the expression "being fucked to death" made a lot more sense.

"Potter!" Malfoy growled. Harry couldn't tell if he sounded more frustrated or aroused. "Get _on _with it, would you?"

Needing no further prompting, Harry shifted himself so as not to put the entirety of his weight onto Malfoy, settled himself comfortably, and got to work.

Malfoy's cock was nothing like Harry's. Whereas his was thick and dark, Malfoy's was thin, though long, and pink, with a curve that had Harry fighting off daydreams about what it'd feel like inside him.

There was precum swelling from the quivering head and Harry bent down to swipe at it. Malfoy jerked and gasped, and Harry closed his mouth to savor the taste.

"Potter, _please,_" Malfoy whined. The body underneath him was trembling with tension.

Harry mercifully opened his mouth wide and took Malfoy in deep with a single swallow.

Malfoy cried out and Harry redoubled his efforts, desperate to hear more of such sounds from him. The game lasted all of ten seconds before Malfoy got hold of himself and returned his attentions to Harry's cock. After that, Harry could do little else but moan as Malfoy sucked him and try not to choke on Malfoy's dick as Harry returned the favor.

One brush of Malfoy's fingers against Harry's balls and he was _done_.

He held out for two more bobs and then he was choking Malfoy's name in warning. Malfoy didn't let go and Harry had a second to worry about that before his orgasm crashed through him and he emptied himself into Malfoy's mouth. Harry nearly collapsed from the strength of it, and it took every ounce of his power to keep himself upright.

Malfoy suckled Harrys's twitching cock until there was nothing left. He then released it with an obscene _pop_.

Somehow Harry managed to get his trembling fingers around Malfoy again, to squeeze and twist and pull. He rolled his balls between his fingers, caressed them with his thumb, and parted his lips over the glistening head just in time to catch Malfoy's release. Harry groaned as shot after shot of it hit the back his mouth. He swallowed, and continued to pump Malfoy's cock even after it stopped spurting his pleasure. He stopped only when Malfoy gritted his name and tried to turn way.

Harry ceased his movements but did not let Malfoy's cock go. He held onto it, hoping like hell that Malfoy didn't find the act too creepy, until he'd gained enough strength in his arms to pull himself up, turn around, and drop his head onto Malfoy's stomach. The skin there was slick with sweat but it was warm, and soft, and Harry honestly didn't see himself moving any time soon.

"Surely you're not going to stay there all night?" Malfoy asked weakly. Harry glanced up to see him watching him, embarrassment breaking through his post-orgasm daze.

Harry yawned, suddenly more tired than he could remember being in a long time.

"Comfortable," Harry murmured, shifting his head. The sweat on his skin was cooling, and Harry shivered at the sudden chill. He wandlessly summoned a blanket and covered himself with it.

"You're incorrigible," Malfoy said, sounding both exasperated and fond.

Harry snuggled further against his stomach and closed his eyes.

"Stayin'?" he slurred. He tried to stay awake to hear Malfoy's answer, but he was so tired, and Malfoy was comfortable and soft and warm. Sleep took him before he could catch Malfoy's soft response.

* * *

The next time Harry opened his eyes the sun was beaming past his curtains, shrouding the room in varying shades of light. He grunted and shifted, wondering why the hell his pillow appeared to be moving, and then startled when he remembered.

_Malfoy! _

Harry lifted his head and looked up. Malfoy was lying there, propped up on Harry's pillows with his hair splayed around him like a halo, golden because of the light of the morning sun. He was watching Harry intensely, quiet and still as if the moment was a dream that could be shattered into irreparable fragments with the slightest movement.

Harry broke it.

"Mornin'," he said sleepily, resting his head on Malfoy's stomach once more, though his eyes remained open, alert.

An indecipherable look flashed across Malfoy's face for a moment, but then it softened into something that made the breath catch in Harry's throat.

"Good morning, Potter," he said, sitting up.

"Slept well?"

Malfoy smiled wryly. "Decently. See, there was this sack of potatoes laying across me all night, making it rather hard to move…"

Harry laughed. "You should have just pushed me off if I was that heavy."

"I considered it, but then figured it would be a rather imprudent thing to do to the man who would be making me breakfast in the morning."

"Oh, am I?" Harry teased, delighted.

Malfoy nodded regally. "In bed, preferably."

"You're so spoiled, Malfoy."

"I prefer the term 'pampered accordingly'."

Harry laughed again. "Oh, alright then," he conceded, sitting up. He allowed himself one lewd look over Malfoy's bare body—to which Malfoy huffed—before Harry politely covered the both of them with the blanket. "What would you like?"

Harry watched as Malfoy's face morphed into something unnerving.

"Perhaps…something sweet?" he asked, so low that Harry very nearly didn't hear him. Malfoy sounded both hopeful and embarrassed. Harry, his chest tightening a little, tried to chase the latter emotion away with a soft smile.

"How does blueberry pancakes with chocolate biscuits sound? I make the best pancakes and biscuits, I assure you. No one else's will ever taste the same again."

Harry beamed when Malfoy scoffed and rolled his eyes at him.

"Prove it, then." Malfoy said. The words were normal, expected. It was Malfoy's tone, however, that made Harry pause. The way he'd sounded—Harry was certain that Malfoy was talking about something a lot heavier than Harry's adequacy in the kitchen.

Harry inhaled deeply. He stared at Malfoy for a long moment, then reached over and slowly grabbed his hand. He interlaced their fingers, and Harry, unable to keep himself from glancing down, marveled at how good they looked together—how perfectly they fit.

"I will, Malfoy." Harry said.

Malfoy, eyes never leaving their entwined hands, nodded.

With a soft smile Harry tugged on their hands until Malfoy looked up. "C'mon_, mon petite gâteau. _You're helping."

Malfoy pouted and whined all the way to the kitchen, but when Harry instructed him to wash his hands and gather some of the ingredients, he did so without complaint. They worked silently side-by-side, whisking batter, mixing spices, and cracking eggs.

When Harry slid the tray of biscuits into the oven and stood up, it was to see Malfoy watching him, clad only his wrinkled shirt with a dollop of cream on his cheek. He was looking at Harry like he was the most delicious thing in the world and Harry had never wanted any experiment to turn out so well as theirs.

"You're thinking in food analogies again, aren't you?" Malfoy teased. He had a bit of blueberry on his teeth.

Harry's heart felt fit to burst.

"Always, Draco," he said, then pulled Malfoy in for a very sweet kiss.

* * *

**_The End_**

* * *

**Chapter Notes:**

1_. Le Chantecler – _this is apparently an extremely popular and expensive restaurant in France. I took _a lot_ of liberties with it.

2_. Au courant –_ means to keep with the times and know the latest developments of things.

3. Chapter titles are from the utterly adorable "Cuppycake Song" by Judianna Castle.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

I was going through my old unfinished fics (there are _a lot _of them) when I came across this baby. I only had the first few paragraphs written, but after reading them I was immediately intrigued and wondered if I'd be able to pick up where I left off. I ended up being able to, though whether or not I did my old idea any justice, I can't say. In any event, I had fun writing this.

I really hope you guys enjoyed this! Please let me know what you thought about it. It's been a long time since I've written anything featuring Harry and Draco so I'm a little nervous about how this turned out. If there's anything you think might need improvement, let me know.

Thanks so much for reading. Happy Holidays.


End file.
